Death in Video Games

Death is a powerful motivator. In fiction, it often triggers an emotional response from the characters affected by it: the death of a loved one, a friend, a family member. In the audience, the response is just as strong. Some of the most memorable moments from film, television, and literature come as a result of a main character’s death. In video games, this is no different. But sometimes death can be an abusive tool. When it exists solely as a means of triggering a response, rather than the emotions coming naturally or logically, then this is the sign of poor writing.

This is an article about death in video games: suffice it to say, there will be spoilers. You have been warned.

The infamous "Red Wedding" scene from Game of Thrones, purportedly one of the most emotionally stressful scenes in the entire series. Why? Just because a lot of people died? The death of a single character can often be more powerful than the death of many.

 I tried reading A Song of Fire and Ice. I even tried settling for the HBO series Game of Thrones. I really did. I kept hearing from everyone how great it was and how shocking it was. The notion of main characters dying in fiction always intrigued me, because, contrary to the traditional belief of the main character being the “hero,” I’ve always despised the dreaded plot shield (that is to say, the main character surviving even the most extreme circumstances simply because he or she was the main character). But, there’s a caveat to that: with equal dissatisfaction, I hate main characters being killed shamelessly. And as I read those books, I found that in spades.

There was no rhyme or reason to the deaths, certainly not after the first significant one. I understand the desire to bring about a sense of morality, especially into a world rife with war and dangers. The idea that no one is safe is a strong theme. But when it gets to the point that I start to expect characters to die, that defeats the purpose of it. Death shouldn’t ever be an expectation, it should be a surprise. Because that is, in essence, what death symbolizes – the uncertainty of life. Killing a main character in a meaningful way can have tremendous narrative impact. Killing main character after main character just because “people die” is sloppy and shameless.

In The Darkness, Jackie Estacado, after having died and been resurrected by the titular demonic entity that has cursed his family for generations, goes in search of the man who had him assassinated. Through a series of misfortunes, his girlfriend, Jenny, is caught in the crossfire, and in one of the most brutal and heartfelt scenes I have ever witnessed, Jackie is forced to watch (forced by the Darkness itself, whose intent it is to bring out Jackie’s innermost rage) as Jenny is executed by the very man who had him killed. This is death done meaningfully, because it allows Jackie to abandon his inhibitions and truly become the killer that the Darkness wants him to be.

A powerful and heartbreaking scene that shows the casualties of being in a relationship with someone possessed by an ancient demon.

 In Lost Odyssey, it is actually the main character’s aversion to death that makes the act so powerful. Throughout the game you are treated to these wonderfully written little stories entitled “1000 Years of Dreams,” in which Kaim, our immortal protagonist, remembers those whom he has met and spent time with throughout his existence, all of whom have passed on. None are more meaningful than “Hanna’s Departure,” during which Kaim is at the bedside of a young, dying girl with whom he spent many days and nights recounting his adventures to. She is frail now, without sight, and her hearing is fading. Kaim speaks to her and tells her of one final journey. He promises that he will see her again, but that is a lie. This will be the last Kaim will see of her, and soon he will move, to another town, another city, where he will continue to meet and love and eventually leave those who cannot possibly understand the burden of life as Kaim does.

In Red Dead Redemption, you spend the entirety of the game gunning down criminals and chasing anyone your employers tell you to. So at the end when they immediately turn on you to hide their association, John Marston does the only thing he can do to protect his family – he gives his employers what they want: himself. In a blaze of glory, John sacrifices himself so that his family can safely get away. And in the game’s epilogue, you assume the role of his son – some odd years later into adulthood – now in search of the one man ultimately responsible for setting up his father. And you kill him.

John Marston's death caught many by surprise, but it was a fitting culmination to his story and made for an excellent transition into playing as his son, who exacts vengeance for his father's murder.

 These are three powerful and emotionally resonant moments as a result of the death of a character, and in the case of Lost Odyssey, not even a pertinent character. But that is the ultimate potential of death as a thematic tool. To be used so carelessly defeats the purpose of it entirely. We become jaded, complacent, and expectant. Death can be used to demonstrate the price of war, as Game of Thrones/A Song of Fire and Ice tries to do, but it needs more restraint, more purpose. Otherwise, it isn’t sadness that people start to feel, but frustration.

Final Fantasy Tactics is perhaps the prime example of the cost of war in video games. I can think of no other game (and please, correct me if I’m wrong) where more essential, main characters die throughout the course of the narrative. Every single death of a character (gameplay deaths withstanding) facilitates the story and serves a purpose. There is no death that feels meaningless or unnatural. Teta is murdered by the traitorous Algus, who, in his disdain for commoners, seeks to hurt Ramza, the bastard son of a nobleman and the hero of the game. Ramza’s best friend, Delita, is of common blood; Teta is his sister. Algus murders her right before their eyes and it is this that sets in motion the chain of events which leads Delita and Ramza on two radically different paths to ending the war.

Zalbag, Ramza’s older half-brother, is murdered by their eldest brother and a conspirator of the war, Dycedarg, because he found out the truth – that Dycedarg poisoned their father to claim the throne. Miluda, a member of a revolutionary brigade, opposes our heroes on two occasions, but it is on the first, during which time the aforementioned Algus is still a part of your company, that he dehumanizes the woman and talks to her as if she were an animal, quite literally saying “Animals have no god” because of her common ancestry. It is after the second encounter when you are forced to kill her, and this launches her brother, Wiegraf, leader of the brigade, on a quest for revenge against Ramza, turning him into a rival of sorts throughout a significant portion of the game.

Algus, the spiteful nobleman that he is, shows his true colors when he talks down to someone simply for not being of royal blood.

 Even the villains themselves get their due, the results of which are never underscored or understated. Death in fiction is not a tool to be abused. Just like death itself in our lives, it is to be treated with respect. If you don’t respect the characters, how can the audience respect you? There’s a price that must be paid, and sadly in fiction, many of our favorite characters have to pay it. It can be used to demonstrate the perils of war, the dangers of a forbidden relationship, the punishment for immortality, and even the price of redemption. But whatever it’s used for, just make it count.